


Red Lipstick Smile

by Nyxierose



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 06:23:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3164579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyxierose/pseuds/Nyxierose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Octavia sings in an underground nightclub and Lincoln watches (and then she makes her move and his world will never be the same).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Lipstick Smile

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AvaRosier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaRosier/gifts).



She's got the voice of an angel, that girl. Hair as silky as the silvery-purple dress that hangs from her shoulders and drapes over her delicate curves, hair he wants to run his fingers through. He shouldn't want her like this. She's a pretty pale wisp of a thing singing in one of the better undergrounds; he's dark and scarred from the war and only here to wait for someone who might not even show. But reason be damned, he wants her and he's running out of reasons to stay away.

His contact doesn't show - he wishes he was more surprised - but he stays because he can't stop staring at the girl, so confident and beautiful and perfect. He watches until she walks away for the night, barely indicating his interest, and then he comes back. The next Friday, and the Friday after that, he comes back. He's a paying customer same as anyone, and far as he knows, no one cares about more than that. Just as well. He's too busy thinking about the girl.

He's not sure how to go about approaching her, really, not sure what words to say but he knows he has to say _something_ sooner or later. Never mind that women like that don't ever look twice at men like him; still worth a shot.

In the end, he doesn't have to break that silence. The fourth night he spends in that underground, maybe an hour in, she steps away from the stage and gives her pianist some hand signal and starts walking right his way. He'd meant not to be noticed here, but apparently that's gone the same way as every other plan he had for this night. It's hard not to stare at her, the way she swings her skinny hips and locks eyes with him from halfway across the room. Her eyes, he notes, are a murky hazel color that imprints into his mind by the time she's close enough for him to really see it.  She's ethereal and he's almost worried she'll fade away if he touches her, but she's also made of something stronger than anything he's ever seen before and he can't…

"'Least you're staring at my face," she laughs. She's smiling, light reflecting off her features just so. "Saw you watching me. Most of 'em don't look the way you do."

He's almost worried he's done something to offend her, but he's not sure how to apologize or what to apologize _for_. "I'm sorry if I…"

"Did I say I minded?"

"No you did not."

"Good, because I don't." She has a slight accent, one he can't quite place. "I like you."

He's not sure what to say to that, but it does seem like a start. "You're very kind."

"And you're either very insightful or trying to get me out of this dress." She pauses, lips curving back into that near-perfect sparkling smile. "I wouldn't mind both."

He's not sure what to say to that, really. His mind has definitely gone there, envisioned what she looks like under that silk, but the possible reality is a little unexpected. "And very forward," he manages.

"I want what I want," she replies, shifting her balance in a way that makes her hips move just so. "No point in waiting around and being disappointed."

When she kisses him, heartbeats later, he decides he agrees.

He's been with three other women. One he thought he loved, and then he went away and by the time he came back she was married to someone else. The other two, he tries not to remember, little mistakes in places he would never return to. This one is different. This one is fire, pressing herself to him, determined and wanting. This one, she could have anyone in the word, her and her softness and dark-painted lips and yet she is here and now and choosing him. This one will be different.

The question of location is unasked; wherever she lives, it has to be fairly close to here. She takes his hand and guides him towards the door, oblivious to everyone around them. Perhaps, he half hopes, their sort of combination is considered normal in this place. More likely, yet still satisfying, no one has the guts to tell her who she can and can't be with. It is this explanation that lets him kiss her once they're outside, under cover of darkness, brave. It is this explanation that keeps her from ever letting go of his hand. No one has ever tried to stop her (or at least lived to tell about that mistake). He'd never even dream of it.

If there are words, he doesn't know them. She's done this before too, he can tell in the way her hipbones press into his thighs and the way her mouth barely leaves his once they're in the safety of her space. She doesn't bother to turn on a light, ask his name, or pretend this is anything it isn't. Just two people with desperate needs and a way to satisfy them. Most simple thing in the word, really.

Her dress is off her shoulders before he even processes it and then she's just standing there in a thin camisole (and he's amazed she's even wearing that) and in the half-light she looks like some kind of goddess. "You're staring again," she laughs, kissing his cheek.

"You're beautiful."

"You talk too much. I like that."

What little he's said is nothing compared to what's running through his mind, but he takes the hint and shuts up. His own removal of clothing takes a little more time, halfway because there's simply more of it and halfway because she keeps pausing him and running her hands over his skin and making sweet little noises as she finds scars. He has rather a lot of them, he supposes, but she doesn't seem to mind and he's not sure how this is even _happening_ anymore.

Right - because the one time he couldn't find the nerve to approach a girl, she went and did the approaching for him.

They end up on a mattress somehow, limbs entwining, colliding. She about tackles him, an impressive move considering she probably weighs half what he does, and then does one better and sinks down onto him. If she wants control, it's hers to take, and if all she needs from him is for his fingers to trace patterns on her hipbones, he's fine with that. No, he's more than fine. This is everything.

Her body tenses wondrously, he learns. She leans down to kiss him instead of screaming out, lies there a few heartbeats before realizing he hasn't reached that same point. "Usually the people I'm with finish before me," she shrugs, shifting her position again. "Color me surprised."

He doesn't last long after that, pulls her down and presses his lips to hers in the same fashion to keep quiet. He wants to stay here with her. He can't, shouldn't, but…

"You're not gonna leave me, are you?"

Well, how could anyone _possibly_ decline something like that? "If you're sure it's safe."

"What, you think anyone cares? So you look a little different, big deal. It's my damn apartment and my choice who stays in this bed, and right now I want _you_. Is that enough?"

He wants to remind her that it won't be, not to anyone else, but he can't. If she's this determined, he'll cave in. "Yeah."

"Good," she replies, leaning forward and pulling a blanket over them. "I like you. You're warm."


End file.
